Cold Chills and Feverish States
by FullMetal-edwardelric-fangirl
Summary: Morgan got over it. He moved on, accepted that that part of his past was just something that made him who he was. He didn't need to dwell on it anymore. But what was this? A nightmare? What caused THAT? And what are the sudden effects? -Morgan-centric-


Hello, all! This is my first _Criminal Minds_ fic, so I mean…

This idea just kinda came to me. I was in a Morgan's-past kind of mood. : ) And this is what happened, basically.

I was writing this off and on for like, three hours, while texting my friend Justin (who more than likely will _not _read this. Jerk. XD I wonder what he'd say if he knew I called him a jerk on fan fiction…Hm…), so…yeah…I hope you like it. : )

Oh! And **I don't own Criminal Minds**. Duh. ._. More stuff like the following would happen if I was in charge….

Anywho! I present to you:

**Cold Chills and Feverish States

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_Dizziness._

_It washed over him like a tidal wave of stormy-sea water._

_His throat burned. God, no one told him alcohol was torture! Everyone he'd ever heard talk about it said it was great. That it washed away all your pain and sadness. That it made you feel _better,_ that it made all your problems disappear._

_And now the only thing he could blame for his pain was the thing that was supposed to bring him comfort._

_Now the man beside him laughed, seeming like he thought this was some kind of sick joke that he was playing. Maybe it was. He didn't even really know with him anymore._

_The bigger, stronger man (was it fear that made him think this?) stood up from his spot on the comfy chair he'd been in, obviously unaffected by the nausea the younger boy was getting. Not really knowing why, the boy rose from his chair as well, but stumbled a little, now noticing his inability to see straight. He grabbed for the chair handle but missed._

_He was falling towards the blurry floor, feeling sick. Suddenly, an arm wrapped around his chest and caught him, feet before impact would've been made. He heard the man say something about going to bed, that it nausea would go away in time, that he was _sorry_._

_Ha! Sorry for what? Giving him alcohol? That'd be a lie. He wasn't sorry. It was a part of his 'plan.' His 'master scheme.'_

_And every one of his 'star pupils' knew it. It was sad when he could truthfully say 'it was a Quarter Back thing.'_

"_Derek."_

_His name caught his attention, though disoriented as he was. That tone. He _knew _that tone in his supposed "father-figure's" voice._

_No. Nononono! Not this again! He knew what was in store. He wanted to scream. He wanted to yell and punch and kick out of the man's grasp. But then what? He'd fall to the floor, drunk. Still helpless._

_But still, he had no choice. Carl did this, did what he wanted—_needed—_to Derek because that's just how it went. He got a scholarship in football out of this. He'd have a life ahead of him. He could get his family _out _of this gutter of a town._

Never once did it occur to him he could've done this on his own. Not until later. **Much **later.

_Carl led him to his bedroom. Derek tried to calm himself. Tried to relax. This was Derek's bedroom. Maybe (hopefully) he'd just leave him in there and be on his way._

_But his hopes never were fulfilled these days._

_Derek felt himself plopping onto his bed. He was weak. Tired. All he wanted was to sleep. Not be… 'bothered.'_

_Derek felt the hand that was on his forearm (the one that'd steadied him as we walked down the hall. Like a _fatherly, helpful _hand) slowly trail up his arm and onto his shoulder, then slowly down his chest. It lingered there for a moment, as if pondering what to do next. Derek was too out of it to fully register what was completely going on, the alcohol was now completely in his blood, but he felt that horrid feeling begin to settle in the pit of his stomach. This wasn't his first time to the cabin._

This wasn't anything new.

_The thick fingers of Carl Buford traveled down Derek's chest and reached the hem of his pants._

_His breath hitched._

"STOP!"

Derek screamed and sat straight up, disoriented and shaking. He blinked a few times, and stared at his surroundings. He was in his apartment. Alone.

He was in a cold sweat. He almost _never _got that shaken up over Buford anymore. It just didn't happen. Buford was in jail; locked away where he couldn't scar anyone else like he'd done to Morgan.

His fingers were still trembling, even though he willed them to stop. He knew what happened next in that nightmare, and it wasn't pretty. As he pondered on why—why oh WHY in the _world _Carl decided to haunt him _tonight_—it made of him think of the case they'd just finished. He'd been so _tired _when he'd finally gotten home at sometime after midnight he'd just walked in and went straight to bed. Not thinking about it. Not _wanting _to think about it.

They'd dealt with a child molester. The S.O.B. was sick, that much was for sure. It pissed Morgan of just thinking about it, right then and there at—he glanced at the digital clock on his bedside table. In bright crimson glowing numbers it read '2:01'—two in the morning!

Derek sighed in frustration. Two hours of rough, no-help-at-all sleep. Great. Just what he needed.

Falling back onto the pillows on his bed, he let yet another irritated sigh escape his lips. It was a crying shame that a long-since-gone man was making him lose sleep. He closed his eyes, knowing that, more than likely, he wouldn't be falling asleep that night.

Ugh. Work was going to _suck _in the morning.

Morgan felt a throbbing in his head appear from nowhere and a chill run down his spine; suddenly he was freezing. It was the middle of winter (ugh. Cold…), and the heat was already blaring. And he was cold?

Damn weather!

Derek rolled onto his side, comforter pulled up to his chin (still cold…), and stared at the clock.

Ah! It was 2:03! Only four more hours and twenty-seven…wait…_click…_twenty-_eight _more minutes left until his alarm went off!

He could feel his ever-growing excitement already.

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Hm…Well…

It wasn't utterly amazing. But pretty good, if I do say so myself. At least for being written from eleven at night to one in the morning…

Anywho! I hope you liked it! I think…I might turn this into a chapter fic, actually. I feel like I should. It's telling me it's lonely as just a one-shot. –sigh- Picky fics. :|

Alrighty, well, you see that speech bubble down at the bottom? Why don't you click it and see what happens? You know what, I dare you. Double dog dare. Ha! Now you have to. :3

Reviews are lobve! And I lovelovelove reviews! :3


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